


The Seventeen Faces of S1-53

by Eyeball_butt



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Abuse, Agender Character, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abuse, Genderfluid Character, Hurt No Comfort, I might add more, I will make you hate the institute, Nick is a good dad, No Plot/Plotless, Not Lore Friendly, POV First Person, Period-Typical Racism, Plot? What Plot?, Racism, Synth, a lot of amnesia, main character is essentially a baby and is super confused, minor torture, more character focused than plot focused, not good with tags, sometimes you don't know when you are being tortured and that just happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-29 10:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyeball_butt/pseuds/Eyeball_butt
Summary: S1-53 stands on the line between Generation 2 and Generation 3. They have a synthetic body with the mental capacity of any human. Conflict arises, however, when they are treated like any other Gen-2 synth and expected to act just like them. S1-53 is naturally rebellious and the Institute stands above them with a white hot iron fist. When push comes to shove, someone has to break.





	1. Grey and White

**Author's Note:**

> When the new synths aren't debriefed enough; expect questions.

White and Grey.

Those were the first two colors I ever saw.

I had only stood for a second before my legs gave out. I was on the ground looking at my white hands against the white floors. My eyes trailed upwards to see the white people in white clothes and the bright white lights against the grey walls. I could hear voices and the whirring of machines above me. The white people’s mouths moved and their droning was nearly impossible for me to discern. I could feel warm hands under my arms, lifting me up and forcing me to my feet. I broke out of my daze and could finally make out the words.

“S1-53, please go directly to processing.” The voice said, it was calm and monotone spoken by something not quite human. It had the same shape and look, but the skin was a strange color and patched together. Its grey eyes stared at me expectantly as it repeated its line again. “S1-53, please go directly to processing.”

A hand guided me forwards to a black hole in the wall and I found myself isolated in a black form barely bigger than myself. Then came a voice, a human one over an intercom. “S1-53 initiate shut down. Authorization code: Iota 88 Sigma.”

And all I could see was black.  
   
\-----

I finally woke up with information flooding my mind. Simple truths made themselves apparent to me. I was in the Institute. The world had ended and we were working to rebuild it. It was my job to obey. I sat up slowly and looked around the room. It was large, open and white. I sat in a cot surrounded by many others, all empty. I could see another one of those strange humans stood like a statue. A synth. The words came to my mind in an instant. That’s what it was, that’s what I was. It seemed to notice me looking at it and flicked its eyes towards me. I blinked slowly and smiled. “Hello, S1-53, your presence is required in Advanced Systems.” It said in the same calm voice. “When you are ready, I will guide you.”

I nodded slowly and slung my legs over the cot. My eyes found themselves locked on my legs for a moment. I was wearing a white uniform, the same that the synth was wearing. I wasn’t wearing this before. Was I wearing anything before? I pressed my hands to my forehead as I tried to remember the smallest details.

“Are you experiencing any pain, S1-53?” the synth asked me, its voice carried no semblance of empathy and I felt a shiver crawl through me. 

“No.” I used my voice for the first time. “No.” I said it again just to experience the way words felt in my mouth. “I’m fine” I stood on my own for the first time as well and only swayed a bit. My hand instinctively caught onto the bedframe to steady myself. Within seconds, I could take a solid step towards the synth. “Please, guide me.”

The synth jolted into motion unexpectedly in a pace that was nearly too quick for me and I had to scamper after it. More questions began to fill my mind and I felt that I had to put a voice to them before I burst. “Did I see you before? When I was ‘processed?’” I asked and I evened out my pace with the synth’s. I kept my eyes on its feet, trying to match my pace up perfectly, even though that meant stretching my legs out a bit awkwardly. I glanced up to see that we had come to a steep ramp which led to a more open area filled with plants and a large waterfall. My eyes trailed through the color of green. I had never seen it before and I soaked in the presence of it. From the short de-briefing I was giving, I knew there was nothing like that on the ‘surface.’ On the thought of the ‘surface,’ no image came to mind. I found that was the only information given away and I found myself imagining the only thing I really knew: white walls and floors with no green. 

“No. That was not me.” It answered.

“Oh… it looked like you. Do all synths look like you?” I felt like I already knew that answer, but I had to hear its answer.

“Not all. Generation 2 synths look like me. You, however, have the appearance and abilities of a Generation 3 and the body of a Generation 2. You were designed to look human.” It said curtly and then silence fell.

Upon hearing that, I had a sudden recognition that I looked like something. There were many humans walking down the halls, none of them looked the same. What did I look like? I glanced down at my hands, long slender fingers with short fingernails. I thought I could make out a faint freckle. “What do I look like?” I asked tentatively. Something nagged on me; that a synth shouldn’t be asking so many questions. But I proceeded anyway. The innate curiosity in me was stronger than a nagging instinct.

The synth looked at me with those expressionless eyes for a moment. “Female. Black hair. Freckles.” It said. I expected it to continue, but it didn’t. My lips pulled into a frown. I supposed that was the height of its imagination.

We didn’t talk again.

It left without saying goodbye. The Synth led me through a set of doors and I turned around. The door slammed as I was opening my mouth to see it off.

“Rude.” I couldn’t help but mutter at the door. For a moment afterwards, there was the stale awkwardness of not knowing what I was truly supposed to do. That was until I heard a voice behind me.

“Ah, S1-53. There you are. Follow me.” Not even a hello. This time the ‘rude’ comment was left in my head. We walked silently and quickly, once again I found myself almost scrambling to keep pace with the quick and even strides. I barely had the space to look at the room I found myself in.

“Well, hello;” I said in an insistent tone. I found a comfortable pace next to the older woman. “What’s your name? Mine is- well you already know what it is, but if we’re being sociable, which I would like because no one has talked to me besides to give orders, I’m S1-53. That… that is a name, right?” I paused in my ramble as I tried to consider what a name even was.

“S1, you ask too many questions. It would serve you better if you merely obeyed.” She said and I could tell she was angry. I seemed the only emotion anyone ever showed to me was anger and curt annoyance. I bit my lip slightly as my eyes narrowed at that. Does no one have manners around here? With the information that had been dumped in my head, I had found that manners had also been something important. Did everyone but me miss the info dump I had been given? 

“I just asked for a name. What if I needed you for something and I didn’t know what you were called? What would I be supposed to do then?” I grumbled quietly to myself; my arms crossing and footsteps falling just a bit heavier. She did not respond to me, but instead lead me in an even smaller room. It was long and thin with a counter blocking off most and a door in the corner to get to the blocked off areas. On the counter was a gun and three small boxes.

“You will be training how to shoot. For now, you will fire the rifle and the far target.” She told me and handed me the gun. I picked it up and she positioned it in my hands. I was surprised at how heavy it was and my arms shook as I tried to keep it steady and pressed into my shoulder. She took my head and guided me to press my head against the sights. What had been an unnoticed tiny piece of paper was now much larger.

“See where the lines cross?”

I did.

“Line that up with the center and fire.”

I did.

The weapon jolted painfully against my shoulder, the sights bucking up against my face and making me jump. Looking up I knew that I didn’t do good. I had a sinking gut feeling as I looked at the black spot, perhaps an inch away from the target.

“Again. This time, without jumping.” Her voice held an edge to it that made me   
swallow whatever response I had. I shot again.

And again.

And again.

And so on.

The scientist took the gun from me a few times and played around with the sights. I watched her closely as she explained what she did. I was not expected to forget what she told me, she made that clear. Eventually I was able to hold the gun still enough to get my shots mostly grouped in the center of the target. She even had me cross the range to show the target and explain exactly what she wanted. One bullet hole. One mark. On the target she could count the amount of times I had fired. One hole for each bullet; that was far from what she had explained and I could feel the unease. She did not look happy. Something told me I had to avoid those unhappy looks as much as possible.

“I will check back on you later. You will continue to shoot and will switch out targets whenever you must. When you run out of bullets you will go to the supply closet and restock. Do you understand?”

I nodded, not wanting to get more of those half scowls from her anymore. The silent nod of recognition was not much better and she left without saying goodbye.

Rude.


	2. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world of perfection, S1-53 can't help but be scared of the imperfection that seems to surround them.

I was alone. I had no Idea why I was left alone or for how long I would be there, but I kept shooting, because that’s what I had been told to do. I dreaded the moment when I ran out of bullets and had to make the trek to storage room. The three boxes on the table were meant to hold the ammo, 300 pieces each. 900 shots per trip. My mind counted how long it took for me to shoot the 900 shots, 6 hours if I factored in the breaks to reload the rifle and change the target, which I did. There were no clear schedules, no one to check up on me, nothing to show the passage of time, nothing but my own thoughts. I didn’t quite like the company I kept with the scientists and the unnerving Generation 2 synths, but I didn’t like being alone either. My head was haunted by questions that seemed to revolve around themselves. I would answer one, and that would lead to another question, and they cycled through, looping in a pattern that matched the gunshots. The kickback hurt my arm, leaving it sore and numb. The shots weighed heavily in my head and I dreaded each time my finger tensed against the trigger, knowing all too well that the shot would rattle in my metal skull and the stock would shove its way into my already throbbing arm. 

All too soon 60 hours had passed. 2.5 day-cycles. 9000 shots fired. Then it doubled. 5 day-cycles. I was counting each second like a prayer. Where was she? When would she come to check up on me? I was alone except for the small break every six hours, and even then, no one responded to me. I was ignored the same as any other Gen-2. I was alone. And I was miserable.

It had been on the 7th day-cycle that she came to me. The door opened and there was rush in my head from the excitement. I had to keep myself from dropping the rifle and letting it clatter to the ground; instead I all but slammed it on the messy table. I opened my mouth to greet her, to beg her not to leave, to speak and be heard for the first time in forever. My breath caught before I could speak, however, as the scientist interrupted my incoming words. 

“Show me your progress.” She ordered. I did it without the annoyance of before. I didn’t care about being given curt direct orders, as long as someone paid attention to me. I quickly began to shuffle through the spent ammo cartridges that I had yet to clean up and I showed her the pile of paper targets.

7 days. 168 hours. 28 different 6-hour increments. 25,200 shots. I certainly made progress. My shots were clustered together more tightly, less outliers could be found. I waited silently as she nodded, asking a few questions I answered quickly. I could only hope that if I answered quick enough, she would be proud; and, if she was proud, I wouldn’t be left alone again. Even so, she turned on her heels after I pointed out the last sheet of bullet laced targets. I sucked in a breath through my teeth as panic crawled in my head. I couldn’t be left alone again. Who knows when she would be back here? I couldn’t stand the constant shooting. The shots still echoed in my head and my shoulder burned with the constant recoil. I had to stop her, I had to keep her here; with me.  
“Wait Miss- miss…” I was clutching her arm and I considered letting her go. But, if I did, she might’ve left. “You will come to check again, right? In-in a week. I don’t like being alone.” She tried to shake my hand off and I needed to get more words out. My fingers tightened and I could feel how they sunk into her skin. I had a fleeting thought of just how soft she was compared to my own tougher wire-padded skin. “Wait! I still have more questions. Why am I shooting? Why am I doing any of this, learning how to aim and everything? Why does my arm hurt so much? I was given barely any information when I woke up and most that I woke with is just being contradicted over and over again and I’m losing my mind.” I gasped for breath. All that I had been mulling over spilling out and my systems overheating. The fans in my chest whirred to life and I sucked in clean air. 

“I said this before, S1, you talk too much. You will be told what you need to know when the time comes. Let go of me and continue your training.” I considered demanding answers right there. My eyes flicked to the rifle, it was heavy, right? It hurt my arm to hold too long, how much would it hurt with all my force put into it? Her skin was so soft. I barely put any pressure on her and my fingers sunk right in. “S1;” Her voice was dangerously sharp. She must’ve noticed my where my eyes looked. Of course she would, even I could feel the way my face contorted, wide eyed, my features strung together like a spring pulled too tight and ready to snap back into place. “If you are feeling rebellious, we can reset you.” I let go like her arm was white hot. Reset was not a nice word. It was a word that meant I would go through the confusion of the last week again. I did not like that word. I took a step back, and another.

“Ma’am, I will continue to carry out your orders.” My own voice surprised me: cold and hiding the terror I felt inside. My mouth settled into a straight thin line “You need not reset my systems.” She seemed to like the change and she straightened her coat.

“Continue your training.” She said as she walked away. She didn’t say goodbye, she didn’t deserve a goodbye. But the clock in my head began to tick again deceptively. I picked up my rifle and began to fire one bullet after another. 10 shots now, only 25,190 more until I wouldn’t be alone again. At least, that’s the mantra I told myself.  
   
\-----

 

She didn’t come back before my arm gave out. It had taken 7 days for the feeling to be lost. 12 more and my fingers didn’t respond as well, 30 days later, I couldn’t lift my arm. I had considered going for a help a few times. I imagined the cold unwavering eyes of the Generation-2s as I showed them my arm; they would treat me like any other robot. Something in my mind told me that wasn’t true, that I wasn’t just another machine, and the dread that coiled inside me made me rule that out. What about the scientists though? The one that I had met wasn’t personable. When I tried to speak to her out of turn she had threatened to reset me. What if she found out I was broken, that I left my spot and walked throughout the Institute to find her? I tried to imagine what her face would look like. Cold, I assumed, like before, but even colder. All of the things I avoided would be in her facial expression and directed towards me. The chill that thought sent through me made me to go with the most painful solution, to “man-up” and continue my training. She would like it if I continued to train despite everything, right? Would she smile? Maybe I would learn her name. The hope of something as simple as the cold scientist showing some sort of approval led me forwards. It hurt to shoot, but I would do what I had to for even the smallest bit of warmth. 

I put the rifle butt into the crook of my elbow and used my other hand to reposition my arm. It took a while to position my dead hand to be wrapped around the handle and the trigger. I positioned the next hand near the muzzle and the back slipped through my fingers, I stumbled with the weight of it and crashed into the table, the newly restocked supply of the 900 bullets spilling out onto the floor along with myself and the gun. I quickly glanced around, worried someone had heard the commotion and I began to clean it up, trying to put the bullets in each of their boxes perfectly with one shaking hand. My right arm wouldn’t move, it wasn’t that I just couldn’t lift it; even the fingers wouldn’t respond.

I was to be told what I needed to know as it became necessary. I wasn’t told my arm _wouldn’t_ give out, right? I forced down my uncertainty and focused on trying to straighten the table. Every time it went upright the table would merely wobble unsteadily and collapse under its own weight. It wouldn’t stand up. I broke it. I broke the table. I had to fix it. Something broken would be thrown away. I had to fix it. I had to fix myself. If I didn’t fix everything I would be broken, I would be thrown away. The door opened and all my circuits nearly fried right there. _She was there._ She saw the mess I made. I was done for, I’d be reset and I really, _really_ did not want to be reset. My left hand went up, grabbing at my hair tightly as my body began to tremble.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” I cried out before she could manage any words. “M-my arm. It’s- it’s… it stopped working a bit ago and I dropped my gun.” I said my words tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I didn’t want her to know I was broken, but, as this point, what other reason could I have? “It really was an accident, I swear. I’ll clean it up now, I promise, and I-I’ll… I’ll find a way to fix the table as well.” I looked over the broken bits of the table be I couldn’t make sense of them, I had no idea how a table worked and the panic in my brain was making it harder and harder to sort out.

I didn’t notice her coming up towards me until her hand dug into me and my body jolted in response, but I forced myself not to try to fight back as she forced me to stand up and face her. I realized then, as I stared into her eyes, that I was crying. That I could cry, that synths could cry. That revelation almost shocked as much as the look on her face. Sure, she looked angry, she had all the tell-tale signs of angry; but she was also concerned. “Which arm?” She insisted, her voice was insistent.

“My right arm, this one.” I grabbed my hand and showed how uselessly the appendage flopped back down. My mind was still reeling, she looked concerned? I didn’t know how to respond to that. All I knew was the anger and annoyance. Her fingers wrapped around my uninjured wrist and she began to walk; I had no choice but to numbly follow her. 

Upon leaving room she turned to a Generation 2 synth who was sweeping, ordering him in curt words to clean up the mess I made. Her tone was sharp and pointed and I felt a thread of shame coil through me. I was the one who screwed up, and she made sure it was known. Her gait was quick and fluid as she led me through the main halls. It had been weeks since I had been out here, before I only went to the small nearby storage closet, and now I could see the greenery for the first time in so long. Even though I had no idea where I was being led, or what would really happen when I got there, I let my mind drift as I focused on the leaves instead of her. She led me by the hand but my eyes didn’t even focus on her back, instead they were scanning the bright colors and the flowing clear water. There was so much activity on the bridges spanning the water people talked to each other and I had a strong desire for that. Their faces were pulled into smiles. They touched each other gently without flinching. 

The vise-like grip on my arm reminded of what I had now, what I was, how I had been left alone with no interaction for over a month until I literally broke down. My eyes broke away from the center of the institute as a white wall blocked off my vision of it. I focused for a few moments on her back before watching my own feet as I walked; my face downcast. According to small snippet of information pumped through my head the moment I awoke, the Institute was a paradise on earth. A paradise, I realized with growing acceptance, that I would never truly be a part of.

I looked up when she stopped at was greeted with the room I had first woken up in. The rows of small white cots weren’t nearly as empty as before; as I could see a man sleeping in one of them. Then there was the Generation 2 synth who had first led me to the small room. The scientist who still held my arm took me to a bed and instructed me to lie down. I did so robotically, worry clouding my mind. When she turned, I couldn’t help myself and I grabbed her hand, softly this time, my eyes filled with desperation.

“Please.” I weakly said as the look of cold disapproval came off of her. I loosened my grip obediently. “A-are you going to reset me?” I had to know.

“Why would I?” She asked, her voice still nearly devoid of emotion, almost as robotic as the Generation 2s. 

“Because I’m broken.” My eyebrows slowly knitted together. What did she mean by asking me why. “I’m trash, I’m not useful.”

“Then we will fix you S1-53.” She said and her words comforted me slightly. She hadn’t told me I wasn’t being reset, but now I knew I wasn’t useless. “Rest now, your arm will be in perfect condition when you awake.” I closed my eyes as she spoke my code and my body shut down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first few institute chapters will be longer but that's so we can get through the Institute in less chapters and finally have our favorite synth out in the wastes. While this does take up a good chunk of their life, S1-53's Institute life is very repetitious and lonely. I apologize for any of the synth or Institute inaccuracies, but I find the main quest of Fallout 4 not exactly fun to repeat and it's been a while since I have been in the Institute.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very excited to get this out there! This is more of a character study/backstory than a fleshed out plot with the hero's journey. There will be threads that might seem to be useless but I promise everything happens to attribute to who this character becomes at the end. And who is this character? You can read all about them and completely spoil the story for yourself on my tumblr over here. I would not recommend that though, I will post the art of them as it becomes relevant.   
> https://character-addiction-anonymous.tumblr.com/post/178115533856/ok-so-before-i-go-any-further-yes-this-character


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